


Wreckage

by highflyerwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highflyerwings/pseuds/highflyerwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel fell, he did it slowly, and as gracefully as any man who ever fell into insanity did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreckage

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic during a pretty low point in my personal life. And I'm proud of it because of that, because it came from such a personal--if painful--place. I just wanted to explore the idea that Dean was the one who (accidentally) got Cas hooked on drugs. Just a brief glimpse into what turned Cas (and Dean) into the man we saw in 5.04.

When Castiel fell, he did it slowly, and as gracefully as any man who ever fell into insanity did.  And Dean remembers every minute of it, every second of watching his friend’s slow descent into madness.  
  
He remembers the exact moment Cas took to gazing at the world around him like humanity was just a little bit more than he could handle; like suddenly everything seemed to orbit him in a slightly more interesting fashion; when too many times Dean would find him staring at literally nothing, and not that it was unusual for Cas to stare, but something in him shifted when he’d fallen: he didn’t look at the sky anymore. He’d just stare at a crack in the floor, or the sunlight falling across the carpet, or the curtains hanging over the window, and he’d stare for  _hours_  until Dean would gently shake him just to break his concentration.  
  
It was unnerving, but nothing Dean couldn’t handle.  
  
Next came the headaches.  Cas would rub his temples or pinch the bridge of his nose and snap at anyone who tried to talk to him until Dean shoved the bottle of aspirin into his hand and told him to get over it.  All part of being human, Cas, he’d said.  And Cas had glared and then popped a few pills, and everything was okay again for another four-to-six hours.  
  
This slow shift in Cas’s gravity lasted a long time, long enough for Dean to sometimes forget it was actually happening.  But then Cas’s new-found need to eat, or sleep, or use the bathroom would gently remind him, and he’d have to fight the urge to retch on the sickening  _wrongness_  of it all.  
  
So Dean remembers the first time this happened: the first time Cas started to feel.  It was outside some shitty motel in some shitty little town, and Cas had his first moment of  _being human_.  He'd asked Dean how he did it—how  _humans_  do it—how they feel and deal with the overwhelming pain, and Dean had rattled off some bullshit about it being tough but you do it because it's all you have.  Then he'd shoved a bottle of aspirin into Cas's hand, and left it at that.  
  
That was when Cas was still ninety-eight percent angel, and human emotion was more like the shiver of a cold-chill—barely there, and exhilarating for all of two seconds before it was gone completely—forgotten, until the next time it happened.  
  
That was one year ago.  
  
Now, here they were in Chuck’s living room, and Cas was huddled into the corner of the sofa, with his knees pulled up to his chest.  He was chewing absentmindedly on the nail of his left thumb, while his right leg bounced nervously up and down as much as it could in the position he was in.  
  
He’d abandoned his formal attire shortly after Sam left, for a new outfit of clothes and accessories he’d slowly acquired from those around him on the road: from Dean, what Sam left behind, and even another hunter, Eli, who he and Dean had teamed up with for two months in Little Rock before they’d found Chuck.  He’d even traded out Jimmy’s trench coat in favor of an old hoodie of Chuck’s that he’d taken a liking to.  He was a brand new person in hand-me-down clothes.  
  
And he was staring again, at Dean’s boot where Dean sat across from him in Chuck’s ratty, old armchair watching in horror as Cas twitched and fidgeted every bit like a crack-addict in need of another fix.  
  
"Dean,  _God_ , I feel like I'm going insane.  I can't take it.  I can't take... _feeling_  so much.”  Cas let out a frantic laugh and he twisted his hair a little with his right hand, his left now relegated to the armrest of the couch where his fingers tapped nervously against the frayed fabric.  
  
Dean winced at the hysterical sound in Cas’s voice, and he took in the shaking hands and the sweat beading on Cas’s forehead, and he couldn’t handle it.  He’d dealt with Cas’s slow fall for a year, a  _year_  and that goddamn angel was just now going through some weird angelic detox?   _Christ_.  Dean didn’t know what to do.  For a  _year_  it had just been headaches, and figuring out what food Cas liked best, and the occasional fight between them when things got a little too hard to bear, but it had  _never_  been like this.  
  
“What’s wrong with him?”  
  
Dean started a little when he heard Chuck’s quiet voice behind him.  He glanced up and then quickly back to Cas, “He’s--”   _Wait.  Chuck.  That’s it!_  
  
Dean jumped up and hurried over to Chuck's desk, frantically shuffling through the debris that littered the top.  “He’s falling,” Dean said, and he frowned as he knocked papers, and empty bottles, and old take-out containers onto the floor.  He only had a vague idea of what he was searching for, but he knew there had to be something.   _Something—Something to help.  That’s all he needs._  
  
“But—I thought he did that already.”  Chuck crossed his arms over his chest, and shifted his weight between his feet as he watched Dean rifle through his things.  
  
“Yeah, well...”  Dean mumbled and continued his search.  Finally, he spotted the small plastic bottle he’d been hoping was there, and he shook it.  He heard the rattle of pills at the bottom, and hurried back over to Cas.  
  
“Hey—wait what are you doing?”  Chuck protested.  
  
Dean shot him a look and then turned back to Cas.  
  
“I need those,” Chuck grumbled under his breath and leaned against the door-frame.  Dean ignored him.  
  
"Here...take a couple of these," Dean popped open the lid on the bottle and poured out two pills onto the palm of his hand.  "It'll help."  
  
Cas looked up at him and his twitching seemed to stop completely for a few seconds.  "Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah, Cas," Dean tried desperately to keep the waver out of his voice.  “It’'ll help."  
  
Cas obediently held out his hand and Dean tipped the pills onto his palm.  He immediately tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry, and when he looked back up at Dean with a small, fragile smile, all Dean wanted to do was cry.  
  
“Thanks, Dean,” Cas murmured, and went back to fidgeting in his corner of the couch.  
  
Dean didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and headed for the door.  
  
Before he could get past, Chuck gently reached out and stopped him.  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Giving him those pills?”  Chuck whispered.  
  
“What?”  Dean frowned, “Yeah. No, he’ll be fine.”  He avoided Chuck’s gaze and pocketed the pills, “It’s just a little Xanax.”  
  
Dean ignored the questioning look Chuck gave him and pushed past him into the hall.  As he stormed out the front door, the sound of the screen door slammed behind him like the death rattle of the last shred of hope he had left.  
  
\----  
  
Dean tried to save him once after that.  
  
Another year had passed after Dean had given him those first pills—Just something a little stronger than aspirin, that's all he needs, ‘til he gets past this, that's what he'd told himself—another year filled with a quick and dirty slide into the life of an addict.  
  
They were in Colorado at a temporary containment camp just outside of Boulder, holed up for an indefinite amount of time until it was safe to move again.  The virus had spread to all the major cities and everywhere in between, and the only safe place left was backwater country—deep woods and forgotten land that seemed to hold memories Dean couldn’t imagine even if he’d wanted to.  The date...Dean wasn't sure of the date.  All he knew was that it was late in the year, and unseasonably warm.  The air hung damp and humid where it clung to the trees and the inside of his lungs, and the containment fires half a mile outside of camp did little to dispel the reek of death that seeped in from the outside world.  
  
Cas hadn’t come out of his cabin for three days.  
  
Dean had given him his own living-quarters, simply so he wouldn’t have to bear witness to whatever Cas’s daily extra-curricular activities had become, but he was growing weary, and the need to intervene had won over his desire to remain in denial.  Dean wasn’t about to lose Cas the same way he’d lost Sam.  
  
So, late one Tuesday afternoon, when the rest of the camp was quiet, Dean carefully ascended the steps of Cas’s cabin.  The wood creaked softly under his boots, and he slowed when he reached the porch.  He watched Cas through the doorway for a minute.  He could see him sitting at the table, his back to Dean, and he could just make out the array of bottles—both alcoholic and pharmaceutical—amongst a handful of other unidentifiable substances strewn before him.  
  
It wasn’t until Dean saw the syringe that he started to panic.   _Shit_.  What the hell was he supposed to do?  He’d never been in this situation before.  He could just turn around.  Cas hadn’t heard him.  Surely he hadn’t.  He could just turn around, keep pretending Cas would be okay, that he would pull through and be okay.   _He'll be okay_.  But before he could turn around, a languid voice floated back to him through the doorway.  
  
"Hey there, Deano," Cas drawled.  
  
Dean flinched at the nickname.   _That name_.  No one good ever called him by that name.  He’d only ever heard it a handful of times outside of Hell, and even then it seemed reserved solely for the twisted lips of a demon.  To hear Cas say it...  
  
Dean stepped inside and slammed the door behind him.  
  
“Okay, Cas, that’s enough, hand it over," he snapped.  
  
Cas didn’t even look up at him when Dean stepped closer, he just continued fiddling with the little orange bottle in his hand.  
  
“Hand what over?”  
  
“Come on, Cas, don’t do this. You’ve had enough, I’m cutting you off."  Dean reached out to take the bottle away, and Cas jerked back like a frightened animal.  He jumped up from his chair, and out of Dean’s reach.  
  
Dean quickly followed, crowding against him until Cas’s backside bumped into the table behind him.  
  
“What the fuck?  Back off, man.”  Cas flailed sluggishly against Dean and looked confused for a split-second before he suddenly stilled, and his expression turned predatory when his eyes finally focused on Dean’s face.  He tilted his head and leered, his lips curling upward in what would be a smirk if he wasn't so fucking high.  
  
Dean caught sight of Cas’s gaze and leaned back.   _What the hell?_  He quickly reached out again for the bottle in his hand.  Cas jerked his arm away before Dean could reach him and instead threw his other arm up and wrapped it around Dean’s neck, pulling their chests flush together.  Dean grunted a little.  He stumbled forward, and reached out to steady himself on the table behind Cas.  
  
“Oh, I see,” Cas breathed against Dean’s mouth.  His breath smelled like cheap tequila and sex, and Dean tried to lean back, to get as far away from him as he could, but Cas just held him tighter.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Cas.  What the hell.”  Dean jerked backwards.  
  
“Oh, come on.”  Cas's eyes were glazed and vacant through the morphine fog clouding his brain.  “I know you want it.”  He pressed in further and reached down between them to cup Dean through the denim of his jeans.  
  
“Cas—Cas, stop it.”  Dean tried again in vain to detach himself from the other man’s grasp.  This was the last thing in the world he wanted. Not now.  Not like this.  Cas just chuckled and pulled him tighter, dragging Dean’s head down to press their mouths together in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.  His tongue darted out, pressing in slick and heavy against Dean’s own, and he moaned into Dean’s mouth, a dirty sound that made Dean’s skin crawl.  
  
“Come on, Dean.  Let me do this.  Please.”  Cas sounded desperate as he trailed his open mouth against Dean’s jaw and down his neck, his breath hot as he murmured into Dean’s skin and rut shamelessly against his thigh.  “ _Please_ ,” Cas moaned again, and then his mouth was back on Dean’s, his breath still sickly sweet and dirtywrongjesus _christ_  Dean had to stop this  _now_.  
  
Dean jerked his head back.  
  
“ _Castiel_!   _Stop it_!” he bellowed, and shoved Cas backwards so hard that the table skidded a few inches across the floor.  Dean stumbled back, putting a good five feet between them as quickly as he could, and he looked at Cas, watched him as he slowly raised himself from his sprawled position against the top of the table.  
  
The two glared at one other for a moment.  They were both breathing heavily, and Dean’s confusion was met with a bitterness he’d never witnessed before on his friend's face.  
  
“Don’t.”  Cas's voice was low and dangerous.  "Don’t you  _ever_...call me that again."  
  
“Cas, please,” Dean pleaded softly.  
  
“What do you want from me, Dean?"  He shouted.  "Huh?  What is it?”  He threw his arms wide, “What more can I  _possibly_  do for you.”  
  
“I want you to stop hurting yourself,” Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper.  
  
Cas threw his head back and laughed, loud and long and disbelieving, and when he finally leveled his gaze on Dean he said, “ _You_  did this to me," and he glared, "I don’t owe you a goddamn thing.”  
  
Dean couldn’t hold back the choked sob that forced its way out.  He nodded a little, an acquiescence to something he wasn’t at all ready to give in to, but did all the same because he knew it was the truth...he owed Cas that much.    
  
“Yeah,” Dean swallowed thickly, tears burning hot in the back of his eyes.  “Yeah, okay.”  
  
It had been two years, six months, and twenty-seven days since Dean last smiled—since he last felt anything inside of him besides the dull, empty ache that throbbed incessantly somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.  He was left to fight for a life that had been forgotten long ago, in a world that had changed and mutated into something cold and dark, void of what had once made it  _worth_ fighting for.  Everyone had left him, and he was tired of running.  Tired of turning away and hiding behind his own stubborness or the father he thought he had to impress.  He’d go down fighting now, swinging away all on his own because it’s what Sammy would have done.  And it’s what Cas would have done, if only Dean hadn’t touched them, shattering the good, and turning the bright spots into dull, rank, holes of darkness that wormed their way inside, rotting their souls from the inside out.  
  
Cas watched Dean for a moment longer, eyes cold and hard.  Through the haze of drugs and bitterness, Dean saw a hint of the angel he remembered, trapped somewhere underneath.  Castiel was still in there somewhere, but he was hidden, buried so deep all Dean could manage to grasp were vague memories, and half-formed ideas that could have been just a dream once, long ago, for all the good they did.  
  
He gave Cas a beseeching look, one last desperate attempt at repairing what he’d broken, and Cas just rolled his eyes, a hateful and demeaning look as he jerked his chin in the direction of the door.  
  
“Get the fuck out,” he muttered, and he pulled the chair back up to the table and sat down, returning to his congregation of amphetamines and booze in the wasteland of a fallen angel.


End file.
